


The True Mania of a Youngblood

by amarylliskilljoy



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Band Fic, Emo, Fall Out Boy Lyrics, Fall Out Boy References, Gen, Members of Fall Out Boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarylliskilljoy/pseuds/amarylliskilljoy
Summary: After a particularly brutal bar fight breaks out at The Cork Tree Inn and Pub, and human remains are brought to the scene, the people demand justice... from the wrong people-- Joe, a tradesman who never should have been involved to begin with; Patrick, a bumbling mage who couldn't help but save someone in need; Pete, an obnoxious bard who doesn't know how to keep his nose out of things; and Andy, a royal guard caught on the wrong side of the fight. Mistakenly jailed and blamed, their names go down in history as that of a bad-ass gang of chaotic "Youngbloods."Why not embrace that legacy?[Disclaimer: This work does not and will not include any romantic shipping of real people. All relationships and advances that feature real people are meant to be purely platonic. Thank you for your understanding.]
Kudos: 1





	The True Mania of a Youngblood

If it weren't for the skeleton remains in his motel room, Joe wouldn't have had to spend a good portion of his nighttime routine dodging punches.

No more than the common rubbernecker, Joe kept his distance from bar fights. He enjoyed watching the occasional beer mug go cartwheeling across the room to be met with a firm embrace of the brick-and-mortar wall, from time to time at least. But the petty fights of the you-looked-at-me-the-wrong-way or the what-did-you-say-about-my-mom got old. All they really chalked up to be were brute displays of strength that no one asked for. Joe wasn't even sure what had started this one here; his money was on the mom insult though.

But the circumstances were that there were clearly two sets of skeletal remains in Joe's bathtub, and Joe was certainly _not_ going to sleep with those _things_ in there. Even if it meant jaywalking through the middle of a few mildly intense fistfights, he would do it, anything to get those creepy-ass skeletons out of his bathtub. He didn't need to know how they got there, why they were _still_ there, none of that. He just wanted them gone.

Unfortunately, the motel he had chosen to spend the night at doubled as a pub (and if you knew the place well, you'd also come to know that it _tripled_ as a brothel). The Cork Tree Inn & Pub, it was called; the only place in the small, poverty-stricken town of Wams that offered hot water (if you paid a pretty penny). The unfortunate nature of this situation, you see, was that the place was almost always packed to the brim with travelers, some of which were ready to show off their muscles to a town to would never remember their name. And Joe had arrived at the pub not a minute too late to witness a group of said travelers.

He wasn't of short stature by any means, but Joe knew he still didn't stand a chance in any fight he might possibly get thrown into here. The men and women involved looked as if they'd trained hours upon hours specifically for bar fights. A few brutes were screaming vulgarities Joe had never heard before, spitting saliva at record-breaking distances towards one another, beer splashing like ocean waves from their mugs. Through the fists and teeth, Joe could see the makeshift reception desk all the way on the other side of the room. Goal set.

There was a slim pathway between a couple of tables that would lead Joe out of the way of the fight; at least, where the fight was positioned now. He knew these sorts of things never stayed in one place for long, sometimes even jumping the bar itself and tussling behind the counter.

_I ought to just run for it now before I come to my senses._

Joe broke out into a sprint, a pathetic one at best, for he was shaking quite a bit from the prospect of a failed attempt. It wasn't even five bounds before his boot hooked on the leg of a table stool, sending it spiraling across the floor into the beefy calf of one of the fighting thugs.

_Shit._

The man whirled around, slamming the head of his current opponent onto the table, knocking out quite a few of the other guy's teeth. 

"The fuck was that for, huh? You lookin' for a fight, ya little scumbag piece of shit? Yeah? That right, huh? Ya wanna piece of all this, doncha, an' go home and tell your whore of a wife that ya won a big old fight with Oswald, doncha?"

The man took a heavy step towards Joe, and to the latter's chagrin, he felt himself flinch.

"N-no, sir; not looking to fight. Promise," Joe mumbled, his words drowned out by the rest of the yelling patrons and Oswald's knuckles cracking.

"Speak up, coward, what was that ya said about me?!" Without warning, Oswald struck, and through purely instinct, Joe snapped his head to the right to avoid the blow. The man's hand collided straight on with the wall, causing a bloodstain to bloom from the contact.

"I don't want to fight!" Joe tried again, this time raising his voice to volume levels he'd never had to use before in his life. "Seriously! The stool thing was a total accident, man! Haven't you ever tripped over something before? Like, it's actually _really_ common to trip over stuff."

"Ah ha ha, sounds like fool's regret after startin' a fight he can't win, eh?" Oswald was smirking at him, a beast dancing around its helpless prey. Joe felt his insides lurch. His head was telling him to just run for it, but he knew that there was no way in hell he could outpace this guy. Of course, the guy at the reception desk was turning a blind eye to the entire bar situation so calling out for help was an absolute no. _Maybe we can just talk it out... you think Oswald would be down for some conflict mediation? Maybe some couples' therapy?_

One satisfying crunch later and Joe realized his jaw had been popped by a skillful uppercut from Oswald. Blood dribbled from his lip as he tried to catch it in the palm of his hand before it all pooled at his feet on the hardwood. The impact spot burned like hell, pain coming in large bursts like a rock-slide. He slid his throbbing tongue across his gum and felt the gaping holes where his molars used to sit. _Damn._ The tooth fairy owed him big-time now.

"Oh my gosh, what are you doing to that poor guy? Did you just punch him? Oh.. oh my goodness, that's so mean!"

Joe craned his neck, wincing as daggers shot up his jugular. About a meter behind Oswald stood a very non-threatening little man wearing a mage's traditional fedora and holding out the most pathetic-looking scepter thing Joe had ever seen in his entire life.

"I'm gonna put a curse on you, mister," the mage informed Oswald, putting his hands on his hips. Oswald didn't even turn around.

"There's another _knuckle sandwich_ where that came from, ya little scumbag, ya hear me, I'll punch ya again!!" Oswald pulled out the bottom of his tunic and began wiping the blood from the back of his hand. "I'll punch ya til this whole goddamn shirt turns red, how 'bout that, huh?"

The mage took a step forward and stood up on his tip-toes, tapping Oswald on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sir? I said I was going to put a curse on you."

Oswald side-eyed the shorter man. "What are ya? A kindergarten wizard o' some sorts, huh?"

"No, I am _not_ in kindergarten. My name is Patrick and I am 27 whole years old. And I'm a _mage_. Well... actually, I'm still learning to be a mage."

"Still learnin'? So yer in kindergarten is what I'm hearin'. Get a load of this guy, huh?!" Oswald laughed, an awful, mucus-filled snort coming from throat.

Joe didn't really think this stumpy little Patrick guy was going to be any help in beating back Oswald, but at least he was doing a pretty good job at distracting him. Maybe he could slip away while Patrick just babbled on and on.

"So, um, actually, I just realized. I can't put a curse on you, unfortunately, cause I don't know any curses. I've really only studied nice, happy magic. So... oops! Forget about the curse thing, okay?"

"A curse? You were gonna put a curse on me? What?! Ya little bastard!"

Joe gingerly slid the toe of boot to the left, stiffening his posture as much as possible. If only that reception desk were a little closer...

"Oh! No, no, I wasn't going to curse you. No sir! I can make some flowers appear, though! I'm the best at that, wanna see? Only gardenias though, I haven't mastered any others yet."

"What the hell is a gardenia? Ya making things up now, huh??"

Joe took step. Then another. His eyes darted back and forth between the reception desk and Oswald. The brute had turned to face Patrick, and Joe assumed he was only in Oswald's peripheral. _Perfect._

Without thinking twice, Joe fucking ran for it. Jumping over a couple chairs and nearly getting impaled by the sharp corner of a table, he made way for the receptionist. Upon reaching the desk, he threw his bloody hands down on the front of the structure and let out the most disgraceful sigh of relief.

 _"Pleasegettheskeletonsouttamyroom!!"_ The words came out in a single, garbled mess. 

The receptionist raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, you're going to have to repeat that. Did you say _skeletons_?"

Joe took a deep breath, just like his father had advised him to do when he was feeling stressed out. Held it for the count of five. Let it out.

"Yeah, skeletons. So in my bathtub-"

A wolf whistle rang out through the pub. "Ohhh hot damn, you're a fine lookin' piece of ass, aren't you?"

Startled, Joe turned around to find a totally wasted guy holding a makore wood lute and leaning up against the brick wall, checking him out. _What the hell?_

"Um... what? Are you talking to me?"

"Yeah, baby, I could definitely write a song about those fine, fine assets of yours."

"I think you have the wrong guy..." Joe turned to the receptionist. "I think there's something wrong with this guy. I have the flattest ass in the entire world. I think he's hallucinating."

"Oh, no, that's just Pete." The receptionist rolled his eyes. "He's a regular around here, one of them bard types. And yeah, he just gets like that when he's drunk. Starts hitting on anything that moves. You can ignore him, that's what I do."

Joe glanced at Pete again. The bard had begun strumming his lute, mumbling what Joe hoped were not lyrics about his buttocks under his breath.

"The skeletons, then?"

Joe blinked, reorienting himself. "Yeah. Yeah, they're in my bathtub in my room upstairs. And just to be clear, I did _not_ put them there, okay? They were there when I arrived. And I want them outta here."

The receptionist flipped through a couple pieces of parchment paper on his table. "Maybe I can just move you to a different room, yeah?"

"If I didn't know any better, which I may not, because I'm kinda dumb," Joe said. "It seems like you're not even concerned that there's dead bodies in one of your motel rooms."

"Eh. It's above my pay grade," the receptionist said, shrugging. "I certainly ain't going up there and getting rid of 'em. I mean, if you're so concerned about 'em, why don't you ask that guard guy over there..." The receptionist nodded towards a brown-haired man with a good-sized auburn beard wearing a breastplate and sitting at a table by himself. "...to get them out for you? Guards are supposed to be all big and strong. I bet he'd do it. And then I don't have to do anything about your room."

Joe looked over at Oswald. He still seemed to be arguing with Patrick, which was pretty impressive on the shorter man's part, considering Oswald hadn't even started beating him up yet.

"Yeah, alright, I'll go talk to the guard," Joe decided.

***

"What did you say your name was, again?" the guard asked, staring at the skeletons in the bathtub. The one on the left was looking a little dismantled, the head lolled to the side.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute, you're not trying to blame me for these things, are you?" Joe asked, incredulous.

The guard held up his hands. "No! No, I don't blame you. I... just wanted to know. I don't know very many people here. You're the first person to talk to me. And I thought... well, this is foolish, but I thought we could be... friends. At least for the night. It gets lonely sometimes, being a guard, cause everyone seems kinda scared of me."

"Yeah, I don't know anyone here either," Joe admitted. "I was just staying here for the night on my way to Wilson, for trade, you know?"

The guard knelt down at the tub and gingerly lifted one of the skeletons into his arms. Joe held back a gag.

"Guess we'll be alone together, then, huh?" the guard said, smiling slightly. "My name's Andy, by the way."

"I'm Joe."

"Nice to meet you." Andy looked over at the other skeleton, and then back at Joe. "Hey, so is there any way you could-"

Joe almost retched and vomited all over the floor. "Oh, _hell_ no. You want me to _carry the other one?_ "

Andy looked down at his hands, which were filled with skeleton bits. "Well I'm not sure I can fit another one... and we should get these out of here as soon as we can, before the motel locks its doors for the night."

Joe eyed the remaining skeleton. "Well..." It was just so _gross,_ the way its empty eye sockets seemed to glower at him, almost daring him to touch its bones. _Ughhhh... it's so nasty. Even my grandma looked better than this at her open casket.... and we found the corpse like a month after she died._

"Alone together, remember?" Andy looked over at Joe. Or, rather, up at him. Andy was rather short, probably about the same height as the mage downstairs. Apparently this town was prone to short people.

"Fine. Fine, I'll carry it," Joe heard himself say. "Let's just make this snappy."

Trying very hard to ignore the sound of bone against bone, Joe bent down and picked up the other skeleton. It was much heavier than Joe had presumed, about fifteen pounds or so. Andy used his elbow to jostle open the motel door, and they made their way downstairs to the pub once more.

"Hey! Hold it right there!" It took all Joe's willpower not to drop the bones and run. Standing at the foot of the stairs was a group of five fully-armored guards, glaring down Joe and Andy. "Stay still and nobody gets their head chopped off!"

Joe and Andy slowly turned to look at one another.

"You know these guys?" Joe hissed.

"Nu-uh."

"Shit."

"You think you can get away with disposing your victims' bodies just cause Wams is a small town? We've got eyes everywhere, especially for you Youngbloods."

Youngbloods? Joe almost burst out laughing, but he figured that would be in poor taste. "Oh, we're not-"

"Silence!! You can do your talkin' in the slammer!"

Holy shit. These guards thought they were Youngbloods? Joe didn't even think anyone believed in the Youngbloods anymore... he certainly didn't. The Youngbloods were just an urban legend to blame unexplained, shady behavior on a controlled source so that people didn't fear for their lives on a daily basis. Weren't they?

"And you!" One of the guards turned to Patrick. "Ain't there a mage that's a Youngblood too? It must be you! Hands up!"

Patrick looked like he just about pissed himself. "M-me? Oh, you must be mistaken, I'm only in training and I would never..." The mage shut his mouth tight as the guard shot out his arm and put a dagger to the side of Patrick's jugular.

"That's what they all say," the guard sneered. "You're coming with us, mage. 

"Where's the fourth Youngblood?" Another guard spoke up this time, directing his question to Joe and Andy with a interrogative glare. "I know he's around here somewhere. You all travel in packs, we know your type."

"I think I saw 'im over there!" Joe craned his neck to see Oswald talking to one of the guards and pointing to the bar. "Yeah, that 'un, he's been flirtin' everyone here all night long an' ain't that real suspicious, huh?"

_Does he mean Pete?!_

"No, he's not a Youngblood, he's just some stupid drunk guy," Joe said. Andy elbowed him in the side, giving him a look that said "shut the hell up, dumbass."

"Yeah right! Why are you defending him then? Huh? Oh ho ho, he is definitely one of you; nice try trying to cover for your buddy." A guard stalked over to Pete and pinned the bard's arms behind his back.

"Oooh, kinky," Pete said, a saccharine smile on his lips.

The guard's face crumpled with disgust. "Oh jeez, I think I'm gonna need backup."

One of the other guards moved to help out with Pete while the rest each took one of the supposed "Youngbloods" towards the door. The bones were left in a graceless pile on the floor as Joe and Andy had their hands tied behind their backs. Joe had to take tiny steps in order to avoid stepping on the heels of the guard in front of him, who was holding Andy.

"You're all headed straight for the prison in Thurman, and you ain't gettin' out for a long time," Patrick's guard announced. The other guards grunted in agreement.

 _Thurman??_ That was insanely off-route for where Joe needed to be. Once they figured out this was all a mistake and released them from the prison, it would take him a week or longer just to get back home and restock his wares. He knew whatever he had left in the motel room was as good as gone.

The guards loaded them into a barred-window holding cell on the back of a carriage that they must have brought with them. Joe wondered why they'd brought a holding cell with them... were they specifically on the hunt for the Youngbloods? And if so, what did that mean if they'd arrested the wrong people? Were the real Youngbloods still out there somewhere, having escaped the royal guards once again?

As the guards mounted their horses, Joe leaned back against the wooden walls of the holding cell. He knew it was going to be a long ride. Hell, he might be dead before they reached Thurman. _That would suck._

The clomping of horseshoes against the gravel and the jostling of the holding cart let Joe know they'd begun to move out. Andy cleared his throat.

"Guys. I have something to tell you."


End file.
